Let’s be honest. If aliens were to visit Earth and ask, “What is the pinnacle of your civilization’s achievements?” we would all instinctively blurt out, “Ice cream.”  

Forget electricity, space travel, cell phones, the computer and the miracle of online shopping; we all know that when it’s 97 degrees outside and your soul is melting faster than the polar ice caps, the only thing that matters is a scoop or more of ice cream.

Ice cream is not just food. Ice cream is a feeling. Ice cream is therapy in a cone. Ice cream is proof that despite everything, bad Wi-Fi, student loans, climate change, etc., there is still good in the world.

Cravings are a curious thing. Some people crave fame. Others crave fortune. But deep down, we all crave one thing: that creamy, cold, big scoop delight. It makes our species different from all the others.

Picture this: you’ve had a long, miserable day. Your wife is  caffeine-deprived all day, you have more emails than the population of Europe, and you forgot to charge your cell phone last night. You’re barely able to function, but you open your freezer, and there it is, that half-gallon of your favorite flavor of ice cream. The sweet promise of temporary happiness. In that moment, you don’t need therapy. All you need is a spoon. That’s the power of ice cream.

Walking down the ice cream aisle is a religious experience. There are sacred choices to be made. Chocolate or vanilla, pint or gallon? The options are overwhelming.

Once home, you start with noble intentions.  “Just one scoop, I’m watching my sugar.” Two minutes later, your dish runneth over with ice cream, syrup, whipped cream, sprinkles and anything else you can find.  Perhaps you’ll crush that cookie and add it somewhere. You’ll make room. Then your wife comes in and you hear, “Are you going to eat that whole thing?” Watch me!

No matter your mental state, there is an ice cream flavor to match. Vanilla for when you’re feeling nostalgic. Pistachio for when you’re feeling adventurous. Cookies and cream when you’re feeling rebellious. Rum raisin for when you’re 87 and no longer care what anyone thinks, and it’s too early to have a drink.

Ice cream doesn’t just sit in your bowl. It listens. It comforts. It cools your rage.  You don’t even care if your wife asks, “Are you really going to eat all of that?”

If you want to hide your indulgence, the cone is the ultimate way.  No dishes. No cleanup. Just deliciousness. 

The fact that someone looked at a waffle and thought, “What if I made this an ice-cream holder?” is a testament to human innovation and ambition. Cones remind us to seize the moment before everything melts away, or you get caught. It encourages speed, grace under pressure and good licking technique.

Some of our earliest and fondest memories involve ice cream. The jingle of the Good Humor and Bungalow Bar  ice cream trucks were once more powerful than Mom calling us for dinner. That sound could make us instantly depart from whatever we were doing and search our pockets for money. We stood in line reading the menu.   “Maybe toasted almond today.”

Technology keeps evolving, and so does ice cream. We now have ice cream made from oats and soy. There’s keto ice cream, protein ice cream, even “healthy” ice cream, frozen yogurt, etc.

At the end of the day, ice cream is more than a frozen treat. It is a lifestyle. A mood. A socially acceptable way to consume happiness by the pop, cone, pint, half gallon or whatever.

Ice cream is always there, in your darkest hours and on your brightest birthdays. 

Wouldn’t it be nice if the politicians were voting for a bill with an ice cream cone in their hand?  Wouldn’t it be nice if the president met with world leaders, not around a dinner table, but at an ice cream party?  World peace would come so much faster.

If it looks like ice cream and tastes like ice cream, I don’t care what it’s made of.  I want it.

The next time life knocks you down, remember that ice cream doesn’t solve problems, but it makes them taste a lot better.

And that, my friends, is the cold delicious truth.

Michael Kossove is professor emeritus and adjunct professor of microbiology, Touro University.